Yorktown
by Mari Nighthaze
Summary: England can't help but go back every year. He doesn't want to remember, but he can't forget. America is determined to change that.


I honestly don't know where this came from. ...Actually, I lied. This came from doing way too much US History homework and watching depressing USUK amv's on youtube. But never fear, for there be a happy ending! ^-^

DISCLAIMER: Alfie and Artie don't belong to me. Neither does the Revolutionary War, especially since I wasn't even around when that happened.

* * *

Everyone knew that the Revolution was a touchy subject for England. They also knew, however, that Independence Day was a special day for America and deserved to be celebrated. Ultimately, it became an unspoken rule every July fourth that America's birthday not be brought up around England at all. Even the Bad Touch Trio, who had never been too fond of the bushy-browed pirate, felt the need to spare his feelings. They'd all felt that loss themselves and empathized, despite being happy for the former colony.

So, America wasn't wished a happy birthday in England's presence, and when the Brit was in the room, everyone made sure to avoid the topic entirely.

However, after a few decades they began to realize that their efforts were being wasted. Each July fourth, England was composed as ever and, though he never congratulated the birthday boy, he acted exactly the same as he usually did, tea time and all.

The other nations assumed that he had gotten over it and decided to be happy for America. Eventually they stopped walking on eggshells around him, though they silently commended him for his fortitude.

It never crossed their minds that the reason they had never seen England grieving over the Revolution is because their attention was focused on the wrong day.

.

_Yorktown, Virginia. October 19__th__, 6:00 PM_

England stepped off the crowded bus. The sun was just going down, but the pouring rain kept the American civilians from enjoying the sunset.

While people rushed around under umbrellas or ducked into homes and stores, England stood on the sidewalk, an ironic chuckle on his lips. The storm just enhanced the memories, and he could almost feel the chafe of a military uniform and the weight of a musket in his hands.

He shook his head and trudged off down the now-familiar route.

England wasn't even sure why he kept coming back here every year, why he felt the need to do this to himself. It was just a painful reminder, and yet, he wasn't sure he wanted to forget.

After the Revolution, his relationship with America had never been the same. Sure, they had fought on the same side in multiple wars, and Churchill had spoken about that 'special relationship', but that was as nations. As people, as Arthur and Alfred, something had been broken that England wasn't sure could ever be fixed.

He spent every day lying to himself, pretending that it didn't hurt. He bottled all of it up, trying to hide it somewhere so deep within himself that even he wouldn't be able to find it. But he'd soon realized that he needed to let it out sometimes, or it would tear him apart.

England paused at the edge of a field. Despite the passing of over two centuries, it looked exactly the same as it did that night, when America had really won his independence. Rain pouring down around him, he continued walking, not stopping until he reached the center.

Here. He could almost see the prints of America's boots from all that time ago. He'd stared at them for hours, even after America and his army had left.

After a silent moment, broken only by the roar of the wind in his ears, England fell to his knees and buried his face in his hands in a futile attempt to quiet his sobs. He let it all wash over him; all of the pain, the fury, the anguish. He allowed himself to accept that the thing that had been broken was his heart.

England felt all of the things he'd been repressing course through his body until he was physically shaking, and if he hadn't already been on the ground he would have fallen. It was too much; it was ripping him to shreds.

Tears running down his cheeks, he turned his face to the heavens and screamed.

.

_London, England. October 19__th__, 1:00 PM_

America strode quickly down the street, an uncharacteristically worried frown on his face. The next world meeting was being held in England, and all of the nations had arrived a few days early to settle in. But that wasn't what had America so anxious.

Canada, who had become more visible and memorable over the past few months for inexplicable reasons (Elizaveta, when asked, simply gave an 'I know more than you do' smirk and ran off giggling about _someone _being in lo_ooooo_ve~! and how she knew roses could be used for things other than covering vital regions), had just called him.

Apparently Canada had been supposed to meet England to go over a few things about the Commonwealth. However, when he'd shown up at England's house he had been greeted by an irritated and hungover Scotland, who had spit out an annoyed "He's not here!" and slammed the door in his face.

Which was all well and good, except England _never _missed an appointment with _anyone_. He was too much of a gentleman to even skip meetings with France, though only the political ones. And if he absolutely had to miss, he always called and rescheduled a few days in advance.

So, of course, Canada had requested politely that Scotland open the door and had, of course, been completely ignored. (He wasn't _that_ noticeable yet.) Concerned about England's whereabouts, he called the one person he figured Scotland couldn't ignore. Then again, it was hard for anyone to ignore the loudmouthed world superpower.

Which was how America suddenly found himself standing in front of England's front door, pushing the bell about five hundred times. It had nothing to do with the fact that he'd been in love with England for centuries now. Absolutely nothing.

"Geez, okay, I'm coming! Don't get your panties in a bunch!" A heavily accented voice rang clearly even through the heavy door before it was pulled open by a, still grouchy, Scotland. He took one look at America before starting to slam the door.

"He's not here."

America reached forward, stopping the door before it could close and slipping inside the house. "Then where is he?"

"None of your business," Scotland crossed his arms stubbornly and glared. America hung his head for a moment, then looked back up at the redhead, some of his worry and fear showing through.

"Where is he? …Please?"

Scotland held his stance for a few more moment before he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine."

Without another word, he walked into the living room, picked up a piece of paper, and shoved it at America. The blonde looked them over, brow furrowing in confusion as he realized what it was. A receipt, for an airplane ticket to… Yorktown?

"Why would-" Suddenly, America caught sight of the date on the ticket and froze. The ticket fell to the floor as he turned disbelievingly to Scotland, who had been watching silently.

"Does he…?"

"Every year, for as long as I can remember," Scotland sighed and grabbed a bottle of rum from under the coffee table.

"But, why?" America asked, not understanding. Scotland shrugged.

"Dunno, helps him cope, I guess. Unrequited love's a bitch like that."

America turned bright red at the casual statement, mouth opening and closing though he was unable to find any words. Scotland looked him over with a tiny smirk.

"Well, maybe not so unrequited."

America turned even redder at that, and looked down at his shoes. Next to his foot was the receipt for the ticket. America hesitated for a moment, staring down at it before glancing up to catch Scotland's expectant gaze. He wavered for another second before turning and sprinting, determined, out the door.

He had a plane to catch.

.

_Yorktown, Virginia. October 19__th__, 7:30 PM_

England didn't know how long he'd been sitting there. It didn't matter. As long as the tears kept coming, as long as he could still feel the pain, he would stay.

The rain continued to pelt his coat, which had long since soaked through, the mud stained his pants beyond any repair, and still he grieved, though whether it was for his colony or his heart he couldn't be sure anymore.

Then, something changed. There was a sound other than that of rain hitting the ground and his own broken sobs. It took him a moment to register it as footsteps. He didn't look up, he couldn't, but he heard them stop a few feet away from him, and a gasp.

"England? Oh, god, England!"

And then someone was kneeling in front of him, lifting his face from his hands, and his red and puffy eyes were staring into another pair, blue and wide with worry and unshed tears.

"I had no idea. Oh god, I'm so sorry," America bowed his head, and England was shocked to see that he was crying too.

"I'm sorry," England barely heard the whispered apology before he found himself yanked forward and into America's arms.

"I never wanted to hurt you," England, frozen in shock, just listened as America spoke against his ear.

"I never- I just wanted you to see me as an equal. I wanted to be someone who could stand at your side, who you would be proud to have there."

England's mind was spinning as the tears stopped dripping from his eyes. Everything he hadn't dared hope for, everything he'd been wanting was suddenly being laid out before him. But what if he was misinterpreting something?

England pulled back to look into America's tearstained eyes. "America, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that- I just- I-" America shook his head, seeming to give up on words. He grabbed the front of England's coat, pulled him forward, and kissed him.

For a moment England sat frozen, unable to comprehend this turn of events. America was starting to panic when England's mind caught up with the rest of him and he threw his arms around America's neck, pulling him closer and kissing him back with a mixture of relief and uncontainable happiness.

Later, they would both have colds from being out in the rain for so long, and Canada would be forced to take care of them (with some help from France, though that would be more for his benefit than anyone else's).

But for now that didn't matter because, for the first time since he'd been beaten in that very field by the same man that now had his hand in a _very _inappropriate place (not that England was complaining), the pain was gone.

And because he knew that he wouldn't be coming back here again.

* * *

Okei, history lesson time! Basically, while Independence Day is on July fourth, the battle that ended the war and secured America's victory took place on October nineteenth in, you guessed it, Yorktown. It's my headcannon that the scene in Hetalia that shows the Revolution is the last battle and, therefore, the battle of Yorktown. So I got to thinking, wouldn't the day that America actually beat him be the day that haunted him, rather than the day a bunch of guys signed a piece of parchment? (Not that I have anything against the founding fathers; they're awesome, but mail was slow back then and England probably didn't even get the Declaration until September or something.)

So, basically, after that this story was written. I hope you liked it! (Oh, and cookies to anyone that noticed the Franada hints! *doesn't realize how completely obvious she made it*)


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